


a night out

by CheekyDoodles



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Protective Arthur, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:23:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6276877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyDoodles/pseuds/CheekyDoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>basically just a quick story about a merlin & arthur sharing bedding in the woods on a cold night, as i'm sure they've done quite a lot. it makes me happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a night out

**Author's Note:**

> calamity-annie on tumblr!

Folded deep within the unremarkable yet wonderful quiet of the forest, two pairs of boots, two different footfalls, crunch on orange leaves. The heavier, yet more sure steps belong to Prince Arthur, his chainmail glittering whenever a patch of canopy-filtered light catches him, like the scales of a fish. The softer, nervous steps tailing the prince belong to an anxious Merlin.

"We're not going to make it back before nightfall, y'know," Merlin says, voice wry with impatience.

This was supposed to be a simple hunting trip, just a day's getaway of sorts for the weary Prince. After a morning without even an inkling of game activity, they'd finally caught the trail of a large boar around noon. They've spent the day following it, winding in hapless paths, deeper and deeper into the woods because Arthur was adamant on finding the beast. As if it had wronged him personally with its great evasiveness. Merlin supposed Arthur's heightened competitive streak against a pig was just a ruse to spend the day away from the mundane bustle of the citadel. Funny part was, Arthur hadn't even caught the boar.

Merlin certainly didn't blame him for wanting a break-- he wanted to get away himself. Having to spend the night out here was far from the end of the world, but he'd not properly prepared for it. For one thing, they're just about on the cusp of winter, so the days are pleasant and sunny but the nights could numb a person's extremities. And Merlin didn't bother to bring a any kind of bedding, under the knowledge that this was an afternoon excursion. So he did not like the idea of being so vulnerable.

Ahead of Merlin, Arthur scoffs into the wind, most likely rolling his eyes. His heavy crossbow bumps against his back with each step. "Brilliant deduction, Merlin. Really, your insight just amazes me."

It's Merlin's turn to roll his eyes, so hard it hurts a bit. "We haven't even  got a single blanket. I told you this morning that it was going to get colder, and do you listen? Nope. So when you've lost your toes by tomorrow, I'll start to call you 'Your Royal Toe-lessness.' Sound good?"

Arthur takes his next few steps backwards to throw a withering look at his servant. "Quit being  _ such _ a girl, will you? For once? We'll build a fire in that shelter I saw a ways back and no one will lose their toes. Good god." He shakes his head with a slight smile, spinning back around. 

Merlin swallows the sarcastic  _ anything you say sire _ and follows him, halfway slipping down a steep slope to where the horses are still (blessedly) tied. They saddle up and return to the path to make haste in their last hour of golden sunset.

 

***

  
  


Arthur thanks the stars that he'd spotted the cave hours ago.

While trotting back to Camelot in what felt like a nagging silence, the resplendence of the setting sky had seemingly all at once been erased by an onslaught of dark tiers of clouds. The rain came upon them gingerly,  a few drops sneaking through the canopy to land on the crown of his head and roll off the leather of his gloves-- before it let loose a torrent that soaked both Merlin and himself to the bone. 

Their shelter is little more than an outcropping of land above a trench, almost like a giant, shallow rabbit hole, but it's dry inside and spacious enough to save the horses from the downpour. So Arthur won't complain. The sweet, round smell of rain permeates the quickly chilling air inside their shelter, stirring up the preexistent earthy stench of long-decaying leaves and bitter tang of fungus.

Further in where the already scant light is well, scanter, Merlin squats next to a pile of what little dry firewood they could find. He strikes a flint over and over with trembling hands, each tiny spark illuminating his determined face, wet hair pushed away from his forehead. Arthur watches Merlin's slight frame shake with the same cold he can feel crawling deep into himself, along with a bit of his own guilt.

Arthur isn't so worried about his absence back at the castle, if father was worried he'd send a search party out for them. The guilt stems from the knowledge that he'd been irresponsible today, splurging his allotted few hours of fun and then some more by chasing that (cheating) boar and winding up farther off track than originally intended. He'd known they had little by way of provisions but couldn't find it in himself to really consider the consequences of tackling a night in the woods until now, as he watches his dear friend try and fail to light the fire again.

Arthur kneels down beside Merlin, pulls off his gloves and takes the flint from his servant's icy hands. "Give me that, I'll do it. You go give the horses a rub down," he commands, not ready for passing out the apologies. Admitting Merlin was right is one thing, but saying it out loud is an entirely more difficult feat.

Although in a sorry state, Merlin still manages to make a displeased face at his brashness. He follows orders anyway and Arthur tries his luck with the fire, finally coaxing a lick of flame up the tinder after what feels like his hundredth try. 

He smiles in relief, having begun staving off his own shivers. "Aha! That's how it's done, you see?"

"Well I g-g-got it started for you, you c-c-crudy clotpole," Merlin argues with clicking teeth, returning quickly from rummaging in his saddle bags. He tosses an apple to Arthur, holding one in his long white hands.

"Is this it?" Arthur asks before he can stop himself, frowning at his bruised yellow apple.

Merlin pins him with such a sharp look of disdain that he doesn't say another word and bites into his dinner.

 

***

  
  


The rain still batters the world outside their shelter, just a sound without a scene now that the sun has gone down, tucking it's residual warmth away with it. Their pitiful fire won't last the night without a little bit of Merlin's special help, so whenever Arthur isn't looking, he'll magick the charred wood back to it's prime under the belly of the flames, or  _ fortunately _ find a piece or two hidden about. 

The heat is so very welcome to Merlin's numb hands, feet and now bare skin of his chest. He's taken off his coat, shirt and neckerchief and held them up to the fire to dry for awhile until his arms hurt, then laid them on the earth near the fire where he'll unscrupulously magick them back to dry and warm again. 

Arthur still hasn't removed his mail, as cold as a metal tunic must be. His eyes are hard and lovely as blue glass, trained on the darkness outside the shelter, bare hand ready on his sheath. His breath escapes his mouth in visible wisps.

They've maybe sat at the fire for an hour now, neither speaking. Merlin was feeling too cross with the ass to even get the satisfaction of a classically petulant "I told you so", opting to let him stew in his own remorse. If he felt any. But Merlin has had enough of his stupidity. Again, Merlin catches him reign in another kind of full-body shiver, gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering.

"You'd be warmer if you took that off and let your shirts dry," Merlin ventures.

"Can't," Arthur grunts, as if saying more than one word will cause his façade to break.

"You'll catch your death, like that."

"I'm f-fine, Merlin."

"Really, Arthur, you'll get sick. Then what good'll you be? Probably no good at all. Worse than usual, actually... Look, if trouble comes, I'll have your back. We'll be fine."

Arthur breaks his composure at that, with a rather impressive grimace. " _ You _ . Protect m- _ me _ . What the hell are you g-going on about? I thought Gaius had been t-t-treating your mental affliction all this time."

"The treatments will need an increase in frequency, it would seem," Merlin blunts. "I'm serious, Arthur. At least let yourself dry properly. The ride home with a fever will not be fun." 

Arthur opens his mouth, looking like he could argue until the sun shone, when a bit of snot drips from his nose. He wipes it on the back of his hand quickly, looking as embarrassed as Merlin feels for him. He sniffs, pouting at Merlin.

"Fine." Arthur gives in. "But when a horde of bandits comes charging in here, I'm leaving it to you to 'have my back'."

Merlin stands over his prince, whose arms raise up to let him tug the heavy armor off and lay it on the ground close to the flames. Merlin then removes both of his sticky red shirts and wrings drips of water out of them, lukewarm from his body heat. He sets them near the fire as well, already channeling a bit of magic into restoring their original dryness.

"See, that's better isn't it?" Merlin asks, feeling a bit of the unique cheer that accompanies getting Arthur to obey him.

Arthur shivers openly now, wrapping his arms around his waterlogged self. "No, it's m-most certainly  _ not _ better! I'll need to have a talk with Gaius about those treatments..." He grumbles. 

Merlin feels that earlier irritation creeping back, the only thing keeping him from admiring the buttery glow of Arthur's marked skin in this light, more or less glittering. "Right, well. I've heard that keeping one's mouth firmly shut can help keep them very warm."

"Oh c-come off it."

 

***

 

Merlin was right, again, about letting his shirt dry. Of course he was. 

Though Arthur felt much less like the bottom of a lake, pants not so damp and bare-chested before the fire, he may as well be naked in the throes of enemy territory. He keeps his focus on the yawning opening of the shelter, eyes and ears trained to pick up any movement.

It's not so easy while he shivers still and the rain persists, drowning any clues of danger he might notice. A shelter is a hot commodity in a storm, after all. And as miserable as he still feels, the wavering roar of wind and rain, the distant growls of thunder bouncing around inside his chest-- it's all very comforting and he grows quite tired. At one point his head must have settled into his hand as he kept guard, then his eyes must have drooped, and he must have slipped off because he comes to when a gentle shake of his bare shoulder makes him leap off his arse and brandish his sword.

It's just Merlin. It's a wonder Arthur didn't slice him open. "Whoa!" His servant squeaks, holding his palms up in defense. His breath billows out like he just sucked on a pipe. He has his dry shirts back on, lucky bugger. Arthur is suddenly extra aware of his numb hands and feet.

"What is it, Merlin?" Arthur asks, trying to sound authoritative and alert through a fog of sleep. He wobbles and Merlin rights him. 

"I just wanted to see if you'd like to sleep awhile and I take watch?" He gestures to the scratchy yet warm blanket spread on the ground. "You need to sleep. And your clothes are dry now, so you should probably get dressed."

"Right, good," Arthur agrees, still half-awake. He sheaths his sword and holds his arms out for Merlin to slide his shirt over his head. Merlin's cold fingers drag down his sides, dipping in between each rung of his ribs and he shudders silently. He hopes Merlin will pass it off as the cold.

With his miraculously dry shirts back in place, Arthur sits at his post again and refuses to take the blanket.

Arthur can see Merlin's disapproving frown in his peripheral. "Arthur, don't be a dollop-head. You have to sleep." 

"Shut up, would you? I'm fine. You're as tired as I am, if anything. You sleep."

"You sleep."

"Merlin. I'm fine. Take the bed."

"Mmmno, no I don't think I will," Merlin rebukes, actually crossing his arms.

Arthur turns to him now, frustration flaring. "Merlin."

"Hm?"

"If you do not get your skinny arse into that bed right _ now _ without another word on the matter I will  _ make _ you sleep," he grits, curling his fist for emphasis.

Merlin's eyes flit between him and his threatening fist, and he gapes a bit like a fish out of water. "Fine, I'm going," he accedes. He trudges to the blanket and sits down with little more grace than a new fawn. "But I'm not going to sleep if you won't."

Arthur sighs, as if to release his building urge to hit something, namely some _ one _ . "Suit yourself then."

Arthur turns back to look ahead and ignore Merlin. And that's how it goes for maybe an hour until he knows Merlin has fallen asleep despite his pig-headedness.

Arthur's head dips now and again, eyes way too heavy. He finds himself, not watching for an invasion but the delicate crest of Merlin's chest as he snoozes by the fire. His pink mouth parts like a flower Arthur can't name, dark crescents of his eyelashes cast innocence on his pale face. 

Arthur swallows and jerks his attention away. A fresh shiver spills over him as another iced wind pushes into the shelter. He stomps his chilled feet and his gaze wanders back to Merlin's undoubtedly warm spot.

“Oh to hell with it.” Arthur stands and makes his way to their only blanket and plants himself beside his slumbering servant. The left side, of course.

Arthur’s just got his back to Merlin yet the heat his thin body imbues is incredible. Slowly, Arthur lays on his side so that he is still able to keep watch, his sword ready before him. His eyes continue to fall, coaxed by the warmth crawling over him. And before he knows it, he’s slipping under the indigo veil of sleep.

  
  


***

 

Merlin gives way to his exhaustion, despite the unfavorable circumstances. 

He's not sure how long he's been asleep when he wakes to a quiet, darkened cave. His back is chilled yet somehow his front is considerably toasty. He fidgets, venturing his hands in front of him. He touches something, nay, some _ one _ .

” _ Bæl on bryne.” _

The shelter comes alight once more, allowing Merlin to see the broad curve of Arthur's back a mere breath away. Arthur breathes slowly, his torso see-sawing. The dollop-head must have caved. Merlin smiles. His finger tips are still on Arthur, feeling his body hum with all that vibrant life he possesses.

Though the rain has calmed, it persists still, just barely drizzling as if it can't bear its own absence. And it's, nice.

Still, Arthur trembles from the cold and Merlin inches closer to him, closing a bit of their gap. He flattens his hand over Arthur’s ribs.  _ “Forbearnan,”   _ Merlin whispers, channeling a mild heat into the warrior.

As Arthur's shivers cease, Merlin's consciousness slips away once again.

 

***

 

When Arthur's eyes open again, it takes him a moment to recuperate. He can't see very well yet, either the fire went out or dawn has begun to break, its gentle light not yet reaching them. It took all night but he is finally warm. Something brushes his neck and he freezes, tempered muscles ready to spring.

_ Merlin _ , of course. He sits up a bit to see a still sleeping servant, curled inward to Arthur like a beetle on it’s side. His head must've brushed Arthur's neck. Gingerly, the prince returns to their shared heat. He keeps as still as stone, so as not to wake his friend. His arms are suddenly too big. How did they rest before? He could turn over but… 

A warm breath tickles his collar, bringing forth a feeling not unlike the earlier rain melting over his skin. Arthur breathes his own breath over his servant’s dark crown. He folds an arm over his servant, cradles the back of his head the way a lake cradles a fallen leaf. 

The inside of the shelter proves lighter and lighter as the minutes pass. Arthur can now see how the earthen walls bear many trailing plants. The first bird to wake makes her call. Soon the grassy edges at the lip of the entrance dip into gold. Leftovers of rain gleam in the trees like jewels. 

All the while, Arthur's fingers make absent circles on Merlin's scalp, twisting his hair. He's always so small like this, when he sleeps. In the absence of whatever goofy energy that puppeteers his floppy limbs, rests a frailness that begs protection. Whether it's in the cradle of Percival’s arms or swung over his own shoulder like a sack of apples-- armor-less Merlin is their unspoken charge.

There’s a soft grunt and Merlin begins to shift, knocking their legs together. He nuzzles sweetly into Arthur's neck, nose rubbing throat. He sighs, spilling his damp breath down Arthur’s chest. Arthur swallows. He should roll over and allow his servant to wake properly. But he doesn’t. He shouldn’t continue to card through his cropped hair. But he does. 

It doesn’t mean anything. All these nights unfold in just the same way, about. So what if he holds his servant, no-- his best friend close? Who will know if he gets chills from something as small as a sigh? Why should he not feel so whole when his half is near?

Arthur rests his chin on his servant’s crown once again and waits for him to wake, only halfway wishing he would sleep another hour.

 

***

 

Merlin’s eyes open slow, glazed from sleep. A morning bird calls, and then another. Someone is stroking his hair, not unlike the way his mother would when he was small. It takes a good minute to realize he’s an inch away from Arthur’s throat and Arthur must be the hand on his head.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice is froggish. 

“Morning,” the prince says, quietly. His throat bobs as he does. “Sleep well?”

Merlin grunts as he stretches his legs, knocking to Arthur’s. “Yeh, actually.”

Arthur makes a grunt of his own. “Good. We’ll need it to get back to Camelot before my father has a minor explosion.”

Merlin huffs. “You’re telling me. Hopefully it won’t be another ‘purple-face’ incident.” 

Arthur laughs, a bark that could shake yesterday’s rain from the tree branches. “No, we surely don’t.”

A few minutes pass in which neither of them actually moves. Merlin closes his eyes and does his best to commit these minutes to memory. Engrave the pattern of Arthur’s caress into stone, interwoven with all the other patterns of vagrant touches, close quarters and eyes held too long. Once he’s sure he has the pattern committed, Merlin is the one to break the spell. He rolls onto his back and out of Arthur's hold. His arms grow with a stretch and he yawns. He looks to Arthur, who doesn’t look unhappy in the slightest. If anything he looks the way he does after winning a tourney. Quietly pleased.

“We have to get up.” Merlin says simply, even though he is perfect right here.

Arthur’s smile sours a bit. Even on his side, he shoves Merlin’s chest and squeezes his peck. Merlin pushes him away and giggles. Honestly giggles like a ticklish kid. “Don’t order me about, even if you are right.” Arthur warns.

“If I don’t, who will?”

 

***

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
